


it’s a wild ride

by jywait



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, like the last 3 fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 10:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15628329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jywait/pseuds/jywait
Summary: France closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then, “You rejected me,” he confessed, uncharacteristically rushed and tripping over his words, “that was why I avoided you.”





	it’s a wild ride

**Author's Note:**

> here comes me with another pining fic!  
> hmu on jywait on tumblr! id love to hear what you think!

France was...drunk. At least, England thought so. He’s not really sure about anything anymore, but that might be because of the fourth shot he’d just took. His vision was a little blurry. The room was swimming, and everything was feverish, especially the touch of France’s skin on his bare skin. He doesn’t feel drunk, but that doesn’t explain the way the room felt too hot when France rests his whole body on his.

“E-Englaand,” France slurred, dragging out his name drunkenly, leaning even closer to England.

England flushed, trying, to no avail, to push France off him. France continued clinging on, utterly delirious. England gave up. France was too heavy. “Get off, you bloody bastard,” England huffed.

“Englaaaaand,” France said.

“What.”

“England,” France said again, seeming as if he was trying to be serious, eyes glinting with something England didn’t think someone drunk would have. The effect was ruined by France’s eyes threatening to drop every second.

“What is it?” England was starting to lose his patience. France can get himself back to his hotel himself, not like England cares.

“England,” France breathed softly, leaning closely. “I love you,” he says solemnly, and kisses him.

A beat.

England’s heart kickstarts again, and he pushes France off of him, panting too heavily for the breath of air France stole. He put a hand of his mouth, face a burning red.

“W-what the hell are you doing?” He spluttered, gulping and chest heaving. God, what was that? England clutched at his shirt, feeling both warm and cold at the same time. France’s lips were so soft on his, the touch both welcome and foreign.

France didn’t say anything, neither was he looking at England, who too busy panicking to care either ways.

“I’m drunk,” France said softly, and England whipped his head up. He didn’t understand anything, didn’t understand why France did what he did, why he felt so weird, why he wanted to kiss the other again and hold him closer.

France’s words felt like a bucket of cold water was doused on him. Half muddled in uncomfortable feelings and half irrationally furious, England grabbed his jacket, putting it on hastily. “Of course,” he snapped, storming out of the bar. Fuck France. Fuck whatever was going on with him.

~

Okay, so maybe England had a bit of a thing for France. In his defence, France was...France, the same person who was always with England for hundreds of years. They’ve fought together, against one another, but nevertheless remained (sort of) frenemies. England can’t believe it took him France kissing him (drunk, England added bitterly) for him to realise the years of pent up frustration and hidden feelings.

So, now what? England understood his feelings, but that didn’t change the fact France did not love him back. France may have declared his love for him, but he was drunk, so that didn’t count. No matter how much England wished it did. France must have been playing with him, or even worse, known his feelings before he did, and was making fun of him for it.

England glared unseeingly at his hands, which were clenching and unclenching. Well, he couldn’t do anything about France, the best he could do now was try to get over France. Starting by avoiding him.

England took a deep breath, making up his mind, though the thought of not seeing France made his chest hurt. He would...do his best, to get over this fruitless love.

Too bad there was a meeting tomorrow.

~

France didn’t meet his eyes, and England didn’t try to meet the other’s either. If that was the game they were gonna play, so be it. Besides, it would probably help England get over his newly discovered feelings.

Lucky for him, the others have realised that putting England beside France wasn’t a good idea, and have placed a deterrent between them. Belgium was sweet, and England quite enjoyed her company. Just not when France was flirting with her incessantly.

His voice was grating, England scowled as he heard, for what felt like the tenth time, him casually hitting on Belgium who only giggled, then darted looks at him occasionally, as if she expected something from him. England refused to look at either of them, no matter how much he felt Belgium’s eyes on him.

The meeting ended slowly, as it wasn’t interrupted by England and France fighting, as per the usual.

“Dude, what’s up with you and France?” America asked noisily, mouth full as he chewed on a burger.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. And there’s nothing between us,” England replied.

America levelled him with a unimpressed look. England glared back. “Don’t lie, man. Both of you didn’t even fight just now, and Russia noticed you two weren’t even look at each other,” he said, looking pointedly at England.

“Since when did you have a habit of talking to Russia, of all people?” England deflected.

America blinked. “Don’t change the subject. What’s the deal, bro?” He asked again, and England groaned internally.

“There’s nothing,” England gritted out, standing up to leave. He doesn’t want to deal with this, as if he hasn’t already had enough on his plate.

America hummed thoughtfully. “That’s totally a lie, but you do you, man. Just...” he paused, and concerned, England watched him take another bite of his burger before saying, “Try and make up, will you? You didn’t see how upset France looked whenever you ignored him.”

England frowned, stunned by America’s sudden kindness. And his words.

“Upset?” He repeated slowly.

America nodded. “Yeah.”

England’s brows furrowed. France? Upset over him? What a joke. “There’s no way that frog would ever be upset about something like that,” he said vehemently.

America sighed, and England’s eyes twitched. “If you say so,” America said dismissively. England huffed and walked off.

~

England vaguely felt like everyone was watching him, though that might be because the second he stepped in the meeting room, practically the whole room turned to look at him.

Confused, England went to his seat, beside France. France wasn’t in his seat, or the room, no that England wanted him there or anything. It’s been a month, and England hasn’t managed to quell his feelings down, if anything, spending so long coming up with as many (barely) passable excuses to stay away only intensified his feelings. America only looked disappointed at him when they met up for lunch, but otherwise nothing else has changed.

England looked up from the table which he had been staring at the past minute. Somehow, the room seemed to be less in people, as if some of the countries just left.

France chose then to arrive, grinning at something as he chatted with Spain. Spain, on entering the room, immediately left to run to South Italy, who squawked in surprise. France watched him go, a fond smile on his face, behind he turned to England and his expression dropped. France looked away, not even bothering to spare England another glance.

His heart skipped a beat, and not in the pleasant way, rather it felt as if his veins had turned to ice by the cold dismissal of France. England rubbed at his chest absentmindedly.

Somehow it seemed as if there were even less countries now. France hovered at the door way for a while too long, before he sighed and ran a hand through his hair and sat beside England.

“Okay! Everybody, out!” America shouted, and every other country left the room, while England watched, bemused, as America closed the door behind them, a click signalling the telltale sign of the locked door following.

England stared, stunned, then got up to attempt to open the door. It didn’t move. Did America just lock him in the room, alone with France? He slowly turned his head to see France frowning in confusion, barely meeting his eyes.

England blinked. Then slammed a fist against the wall. “OI! YOU BLOODY WANKERS! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

“Talk it out, douchebags!” Alfred shouted back, his words getting softer as he walked away, leaving them.

“America!” England shouted futilely, but outside the door was quiet, leaving England alone to hear his own harsh breathing and thumping heart.

“Leave it,” France said, for the first time for a long while, to him. England missed his voice, weirdly enough, it wasn’t as if the other hadn’t spoken at all, but to him specifically? It felt...different.

“Oh, so you’re talking to me now?” England asked bitterly.

France met his eyes, and England was startled by the dullness of them.

“Well,” France said softly, and England flinched at how rough and upset France sounded, “forgive me if I’d prefer not to speak with you, after you...well.” France trailed off, eyes looking down at the table.

“What? What are you talking about?” England was confused, why was France acting so weird? And what had he meant to say before he trailed off?

France glared at him. “What are you playing at? You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he hissed accusingly.

England was lost. “What? I’ve no bloody idea what you’re on,” he said. France frowned, he seemed as if he actually got in his head that England has no clue what he was talking about.

“You...actually don’t know?” France asked, unsurely and slowly.

Heat rose up in England’s cheek as France eyed him, not darting his eyes away like he had for the past month. “Yeah, nice to know you’ve finally understand. Now tell me what you were saying before you stopped.”

France, and England couldn’t believe his eyes, turned red. “I...was talking about last month,” he said, visibly gulping, “when we got drunk,” he finished quietly.

England’s heart skipped a beat when he thought back to that day. He scratched at his cheek in slight embarrassment, willing the heat to disappear from his cheek. The feeling of France leaning so close that he’d felt the other’s stubble came back to him like a breath of fresh air.

“Yeah, I’d like to put that out of my head, thank you,” he scowled. Like he wanted to remember France, under the influence of bloody alcohol, falsely confessing his love to him.

France went quiet, and England saw the other stare out of the window thoughtfully.

“What if I don’t?” France asked, after they’ve been silent for a minute.

“What?” England asked, incredulous.

France stood up, walking towards him determinedly. England restrained the urge to step back. France’s eyes blazed with something that made England’s breath hitch; he had a sureness of himself that was so suddenly different from his unsure coldness before.

“France? What are you...doing?”

France closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then, “You rejected me,” he confessed, uncharacteristically rushed and tripping over his words, “that was why I avoided you.”

Oh. “Oh,” England said. “Wait what? When did you confess?” England was pretty sure he’d remember if he had rejected France.

France’s brows drew together in confusion. “I literally just told you: when we got drunk last month.”

England’s eyes widened. “What? You mean your confession when you were drunk? But...But you were drunk!” He said, voice rising as his hysteria built up. Had he...truly rejected France? He thought faintly as he looked at the floor beneath him.

“I was faking it,” France admitted, and England whipped his head to stare at him in surprise. France was the reddest England had ever seen him. “I thought...perhaps if I confessed under alcohol, I could at least use that as an excuse when you rejected me, which you very obviously did,” he added the last part bitterly.

England’s mouth moved to form words, but no sound came out. “I...rejected you,” he repeated blankly.

France scowled. “Yes, so forgive me if I did not want to see you for a while.”

England’s heart hurt for France. God he was an idiot, how had he not known the truth? France didn’t get drunk easily, and there was no way he’d have gotten drunk before he had.

France walked to the door, which had already been unlocked. Likely the other countries were overhearing them, and thought they had already resolved their issue. It seemed as if they had, admitting the truth and the tenseness of a resigned France’s shoulders.

France opened the door, not sparing him another glance as he prepared to step out to leave. He can’t, England hasn’t, he hadn’t expressed how he actually...

“Wait!” He clasped a hand around France’s wrist. France turned to look at him, but his movements were slowly, eyes widen in surprise but pupils showing his weariness. England’s heart throbbed at the sight of him.

“I thought,” he started, pausing to gather his courage, hand not letting go of France’s pale ones, “that you weren’t serious, because, well, you were drunk,” he said. France watched him, a small amount of hope filling his eyes. “If you had been serious, if you still are, I-“

“Of course I am!” France declared passionately upon hearing his words. England softened.

“I love you too,” he breathed. France’s eyes went impossibly wide, and a shuddering breath came out of his mouth before he learnt in to kiss England gently.

England wrapped his hand around France’s neck, drawing him closer. It was electrifying, joy running through his veins and the warmth of France’s arm wrapping around his waist seeping into his skin. God, he loved him.

They drew apart, England gasping lightly while France’s eyes remained closed. “Next time,” England said, “just tell me directly.”

“You try admitting the truth to someone like you,” France said.

England glared at him, “Oi,” but his delight was too hard to conceal, especially when France was giving him looks with eyes that were half-lidded and wrapped in desire and promises of something later.

America barged into the room. “Yay! You made up! Now let’s get this meeting started!” He cheered as the rest of the countries came pouring in, some red while some remained quietly stoic. England blushed, they clearly had been spying at them!

France held his wrist as he brought them to their seats, and for the rest of the meeting, over the roaring of England’s heart, they linked their hands together. 

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment if you’d like! I enjoyed writing this!


End file.
